“Oh, Harrie, Harrie,” called Mrs. Derrick, catching at one of his hands.
The doctor shook his head.
“He is unconscious, Mrs. Derrick.”
“Where was he—where is—the—the——”
“Through the lungs.”
“Will he get well? Tell me the truth.”
“I don't know. Mrs. Derrick.”
She had all but fainted, and the old rancher, Garnett, half-carrying, half-leading her, took her to the one adjoining room—Minna Hooven's bedchamber. Dazed, numb with fear, she sat down on the edge of the bed, rocking herself back and forth, murmuring:
“Harrie, Harrie, oh, my son, my little boy.”
In the outside room, Presley came and went, doing what he could to be of service, sick with horror, trembling from head to foot.